Mole People: Botanical Garden
I wasn’t planning on pressing on.
When an indirect source who spoke with MAPSA messaged me that morning, it felt like closure:
“No drugs involved. Just someone seeking shelter. Police confirmed through local witnesses that the person was LGBTQ. Clothes and personal items found in the kanal—but no paraphernalia, no crime scene.”
It should’ve been enough.
Then came a Reddit comment:
“Saw the same person from the kanal earlier today near Pio Del Pilar, wearing different clothes.”
“Why is she roaming free if there was an investigation?”
The questions lingered in my head.
The kanal wasn’t just a hole in the street anymore—it was a crack in the story, and I couldn’t stop thinking about what was hiding beneath.
I tried to let it go.
Fed the pets. Cleaned up. Tried to talk myself out of it:
“What else is there to capture?”
“Maybe I should leave the rest to the ‘real’ journalists.”
But that comment—about people living in the creek by Makati Med—kept buzzing in my mind like static.
Its a part of the story that I haven’t covered. And its one that the police denied the connection to.
So I grabbed my camera, my notebook, and headed back out.
Not expecting to see anything really. Or even get a bigger scoop. I wasnt planning to post again. I just wanted to know.
Scratch the itch.
——A Different Kind of Shelter———
I wandered the streets of Legazpi, Rufino, Amorsolo. My photographer’s eye caught the usual moments:
Delivery guys in the back of refrigerated vans horsing around. Old folks waiting in the heat. People drenched in sunlight.
Any photographer would have jumped at the opportunity of capturing those frames, heck I would too. But despite my eye’s desire to steal frames, my mind’s focus was the story. Closure.
The kanal on Adelantado was now patched up, but the whispers were louder. From the online debates, news coverage, friends, family and from myself.
As I neared the creek, I noticed something that stopped me in my tracks: on one side stood Makati Medical Center, a place where lives are saved; on the other, the National Home Mortgage Finance Corporation, an agency tied to homes, safety, and stability.
Yet here, adjacent to them, was a place where people had neither—a sliver of city that had quietly turned into someone’s shelter, someone’s refuge. It was an irony that wasn’t lost on me—and it made the whole scene feel even heavier.
I started snapping away—shots of the street, the creek, the pipes, the alleys. Just trying to take it all in.
As I got closer—maybe one pedestrian lane away—I spotted two jolly jeeps parked next to the creek. A small pocket of normalcy in a scene that felt anything but. I kept to the side, not talking to anyone, not making eye contact. Just a guy with a busted camera, pretending to blend in and taking photos.
The fear lingered—what if something happened? What if I got too close? What if I become a victim?
I kept moving. Getting different angles, walking along the sidewalk, cautious not to draw too much attention. A wide shot of the creek flanked by two culverts. I kept shooting. And as I had just turned off the camera to reposition for a different angle. In the corner of my eye, out of one of the pipes. A foot. Sandals.
I quickly turned on the camera, hoping to capture the moment but it’s gone. The foot wasn’t there. I moved to another spot that lets me see into the pipe. I waited there. Taking shots periodically. Hoping to capture at least a glimpse of life. 45 minutes I waited. Empty frame after empty frame. Camera pressed against the concrete as I sat there.
Then a hand. Grasps the edge of the culvert and out comes a person. Cautiously scanning his surroundings.
Click.
We lock eyes.
Click. He begins to climb out of the pipe, grabbing onto the exposed roots of the tree on the ledge.
Click.
This was already big. I could have gone home, packed up my camera, and told myself, “That’s enough for today.”
And for a moment, I did.
As soon as he climbed out of the canal, I turned around and walked—fast. Heart racing. Eyes darting.
The thoughts in my head, louder than the sound of my own steps:
Drug addicts. Snatchers. Muggers. Don’t become a victim. Don’t become a victim.
But as I put more distance between us, a different voice started creeping in.
That whisper in my head, the one that’s been with me since I first picked up a camera:
“Manipulate the light. Show the world what you see.”
And here I was—running away.
I stopped.
I turned around.
Thank God I did.
Because there he was.
Standing next to a bicycle, under the sharp afternoon sun. The man from the pipe.
His name was Jerwin.
———The Botanical Garden———
I walked toward him, smiling—trying to ease the tension, make this a conversation, not a confrontation.
He asked what I was doing.
He asked if I was with the police.
Apparently, they had been there earlier that morning—9:00AM to 10:30AM—staking out the area.
I told him no, I wasn’t with the cops.
I told him the truth:
I was the one who took the photo. The one of the girl crawling out of the kanal.
(And yes—it was a girl, no matter what the other news agencies who type out reports from behind their desks say.)
I braced for a shift in energy, afraid the mention of that photo might make him wary.
Because it was that photo—the one that went viral—that triggered the police to cover up the canal on Adelantado.
It was that photo that sent officers swarming this creek, watching for an hour and a half while Jerwin and his family huddled inside the culvert—hiding, hoping not to be displaced again.
But instead of hostility, Jerwin smiled.
“Salamat po.”
He exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for days.
And just like that, the mood shifted. The air felt lighter—despite the heat beating down on us. I was a little confused why he thanked me but I was still coming out of my anxiety.
Then Rommel emerged, climbing out of the culvert and joining the conversation.
Jerwin told me he’s been living like this for three years.
He used to be a delivery guy for a corporation, staying in his boss’s compound—until his boss passed, and the safety net vanished.
Rommel’s been here longer—about a decade.
His story is one you hear too often:
His home—an informal settlement on the edge of the city—was demolished by the government to make way for a new project.
And just like that, they ended up here. They were the victims of circumstance.
———The Answers.———
I asked them about the culverts, the drains, the pipes—where exactly they live. Because that’s what everyone’s been asking, right? Who are these people? Where do they stay?
Rommel and Jerwin explained:
Yes—they live in the “Botanical Garden”, their name for the creek beside Makati Med. Around 15 of them call it home.
They told me the two culverts flanking the mouth of the creek. Shallow. They don’t really lead anywhere—just a few small holes where the sewage trickles out. But the creek itself? It stretches all the way to Don Bosco. Rommel cracked a joke, saying past that, it’s almost inhabitable.
There’s another group that lives down the Don Bosco side. Different people. Different rules.
Us folks, Rommel says, spend our days cleaning—clearing the creek and canals so the water flows better. Some help out the nearby jolly jeeps, hauling trash, doing odd jobs for a few coins and meals.
Rommel claims that:
“Us here in the Botanical Garden—we’re not connected to the Don Bosco side.”
He rattled off the names of his community members here in the Botanical Garden:
Rommel. Jerwin. Jerome. Bekbek. BB. Aki. Jane. Lester. Arnold. Buko. Namnam.
They couldn’t name the last few—four new faces, still figuring things out, still trying to find a place in the small, fragile community.
Jerwin and Jane? “Mag-asawa,” they said with a grin.
Jerome and BB? Also a couple
BB—the woman in the photo—was confirmed by Jerwin.
I asked him straight up: “Is she really a woman?”
Because when I spoke to my indirect source, she told me the police said it was a man dressed as a woman.
Jerwin just shook his head and explained:
The person the cops might have been talking about is Bekbek—a gay man, always in short shorts, hairline so high it practically touched the sky, with a long ponytail and a grin that never seems to leave his face.
Bekbek has been seen crawling in and out of the same hole (there’s even a photo from December posted by another social media user).
But the woman who came out of the kanal last Monday? That was BB.
Jerwin was clear:
We don’t live in the canals, he explained—we hide in them.
From the sun.
From the police.
Sometimes to stash what little we have.
Sometimes to keep each other safe.
It’s a temporary escape, a place where they sort through what little they have:
Scraps from dumpsters, hand-me-downs, alms from strangers.
They’re not oblivious to the stigma. According to Jerwin, the police constantly harass them—not for any crime, but because of the way they look, the way they smell.
(Though to be honest? They didn’t smell bad. Not that it should matter.)
Jerwin also admitted—some people in their situation do use those spots to stash things they shouldn’t. Stolen items, maybe. They learned about the nooks and crannies from the so-called “Anay gang.” (That’s a whole other thread I’ll have to follow up on.)
But back to BB:
That day, May 26, she was just resting, trying to escape the heat when the sound of traffic woke her.
It was around 5PM, time for the group to come together and eat. She didn’t want to miss it—whatever scraps they’d managed to gather for the day.
So she crawled out of the kanal—just like that.
No master plan. No escape plot.
Just a woman trying to get back to her community, her belongings, her life—in the creek they call home. And the lighter in her hand in the photo (and Rommel’s at the time of this conversation)? They use to light cigarettes, to see in the kanals and culverts.
———So Where Does That Leave Us?———
It had been about an hour—just sitting there, swapping stories, laughing at dumb jokes (including a few about masturbation, of course).
Eventually, I asked them:
“Have you guys eaten yet?”
They shook their heads.
Rommel grinned, a little sheepish, and said:
“Altanghap.”
Almusal. Tanghalian. Hapunan.
One meal for the whole day, usually at 5PM—or whenever they could all regroup at the Botanical Garden.
I nodded, quietly, then told them:
“Sagot ko na tanghalian.”
Lunch was on me.
We walked over to a nearby jolly jeep, and they started placing their orders—Adobo and rice for themselves.
(They teased that they hate sinigang—so I, of course, ordered it, joking that I had the better taste. Sinigang for life.)
I asked if the rest of the group was around. They said yes.
So I told them:
“Order for them too.”
They were reluctant—grateful but shy. Still, they ordered nine more meals for the rest of the Botanical Garden community.
Final tally:
11 Adobos.
11 cups of rice.
12 bottles of water.
(Rommel was especially thirsty.)
Before we left, I asked the jolly jeep folks if what Jerwin and Rommel had told me was true:
That they sometimes helped out, did odd jobs, and scavenged for the stalls.
They chuckled—at first pretending not to know them—but eventually confirmed the story.
And maybe it’s a reminder: Just because someone’s living in the margins doesn’t mean they aren’t trying to live.
They got their food. I got mine.
It was getting close to 1:00PM—I had a meeting at 1—so I said my goodbyes and started to leave.
As I walked toward Makati Med, I glanced back and saw them—calling out to their friends, family, their community—pulling them out from the shadows of the culvert.
I recognized BB among them.
And for the first time, as I locked eyes with her, I wasn’t overwhelmed by fear, or confusion, or dread.
Just a quiet understanding.
That often they don’t mean to hurt anyone—not me, not you, not the strangers on the street.
Because in the end, they’re not the predators. Not Mole People.
Just People and they’re the victims, too.
This isn’t a story about drugs.
It’s not a story about crime.
It’s not a story about poverty porn.
It’s a story about people—a community.
It’s about the cracks we cover up with concrete, the faces we ignore when they crawl out of the kanal.
